


Impossible boy

by floatingaway4



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, Henry is a gay English major, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25590967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatingaway4/pseuds/floatingaway4
Summary: It's been two weeks.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 18
Kudos: 184





	Impossible boy

Henry has been gone for two weeks. 

It was only supposed to be one but then some obscure royal relative had died and Henry needed to stay for the funeral. Not because he knew the man but because it would’ve looked bad if he didn’t go when the press knew he was already in London. Alex had wanted to join him but he couldn’t miss that much class, because NYU doesn’t just give away law degrees. 

So. Two weeks. Two. Fucking. Long. Weeks. 

Henry has had to deal with all the formal royal protocols, not just of his own family but those of the royals from other countries who attended the services. So Alex knows Henry will be even more exhausted and stressed than he normally is after he goes home. 

No, after he goes to London, Alex corrects himself. Not home. _This_ is Henry’s home. 

Not that Alex didn’t love the texts and phone calls and emails because it felt like old times, but, god, it was not at all the same as having Henry here every day. In his sight, in his bed, in his arms whenever he wanted. He kept blurting out his thoughts to an empty house, remembering a second too late that Henry wasn’t there. 

When he was finally on his way home, Henry texted to see if Alex planned to meet him at the airstrip. 

**_Hell no_ **

**_Oh_ **

**_Of course_ **

  
  


**_Not unless you want me to fuck_ **

**_you right there on the tarmac_ **

**_Ah_ **

**_Right_ **

**_See you at home then_ **

  
  


**_You know I hear your voice in_ **

**_my head when you text me_ **

  
  


**_I do the same, love_ **

  
  


**_I love your stupid accent, even_ **

**_when it’s just in my head_ **

  
  


**_I love your accent too_ **

**_I love everything about you, actually_ **

  
  


**_Jesus_ **

  
  


**_Just get home_ **

  
  


**_please_ **

  
  


As much as Alex wants to run outside when he hears the cars pull up, he waits until Henry is all the way inside with the door closed. Then he just leaps in Henry’s arms, laughing a little because he’s that happy, and braces his forearms on Henry’s shoulders. Henry holds him tight around the waist, so Alex’s feet are dangling off the floor. Scrambling for leverage, Alex wraps his legs around Henry’s hips, his weight forcing Henry to lean into the wall. Henry grabs Alex and holds him up, cupping his hands under his ass. And Alex rains little kisses down on Henry’s face before settling in for a long, hot, percolating-for-two-weeks kiss. He yanks at Henry’s hair to tilt his head and inhales him, biting the skin behind his ear. “God, I missed you.” 

Henry grunts in agreement, his mouth now occupied with sucking Alex’s neck with such force that there will definitely be marks, and Alex definitely does not care. He manages to get the words out in a husky whisper, because he knows what they do, what they have always done, to Henry. 

“Do you like that? Marking me? Tell people I’m yours, baby.” 

“Fuuuck,” Henry breathes, remembering when Alex first said that to him in a hotel in Berlin a million years ago, a beautiful dare. How they didn’t get caught sooner than they did is a complete mystery, Henry will think later when he’s capable of thought again, any thought that isn’t _AlexAlexAlex_...

Henry whimpers and lets Alex go, lets him slide down his body, only because he has other things he wants to do with his hands. He runs them down Alex’s arms and moves them to his waist so he can strip off his t-shirt. “Fucking clothes,” he mutters, and Alex huffs out a laugh. “You’re wearing way more than I am, babe.” 

They stumble to the couch, yanking off an item of clothing every other step or so when they can stop touching each other long enough. Henry pushes Alex down and lowers himself on top of him. They both want everything all at once but Henry slides down to take Alex in his mouth before Alex can argue, and really, why would he? He comes too fast, wishes it could last longer, wishes _he_ could last longer but...two. Fucking. Weeks. 

Alex shoves at Henry’s shoulders as soon as Henry pulls away, pushing him backward onto the floor with a low growl. Somewhere in the back of his lust-hazed mind he feels bad that Henry is on the hard floor instead of the sofa, but, well. Henry doesn’t seem too upset about any of this. Alex swallows him down and Henry comes fast too, has probably been on the edge the whole time so it doesn’t take much and Alex doesn’t get to taste him as long as he wants but there will be time later. 

After, they both lay sprawled on the floor, Alex’s head resting on Henry’s chest, Henry’s arm curled behind him, fingers stroking up and down Alex’s bare arm. Henry’s boxers are somehow still tangled around one ankle and Alex is wearing socks but nothing else. Alex is ready for round two, but he can feel the exhaustion in Henry’s body beneath him. They’ll have time. 

They both gasp for air, trying to catch their breath, and Alex finally props his head up on his elbow to look down at Henry’s beautiful, flushed, still-so-in-love face. 

“So,” he pants, his lips flirting with a smirk as his fingers play in Henry’s sweaty hair, “how’s the Queen?” 

And all of Henry’s love bursts out in a laugh, his heart exploding with everything he loves about his life, about living with Alex. Alex, who can give him an amazing orgasm and then be so tender and loving and then make him laugh, all in a way that reminds him again and again how intimately Alex knows him. Knows him to his core, and weirdly, mysteriously, loves him anyway. 

He reaches up to drag two fingers down Alex’s cheek. “I could write a thousand poems exalting the beauty of your face and still never quite capture what I see when I look at you.” It’s the kind of thing he never would have said out loud when he was younger and thought he was in love--although those were adolescent crushes, temporary infatuations, obviously, compared to this. Later, it might have been something he wrote in an email to Alex, just another thing to be stolen from them and then carelessly given away. 

But now, to be able to say it out loud, to say all the silly, sappy things that come into his helplessly romantic mind, is the most wonderful gift. It’s everything he imagined and never thought he could have when he stood in the V&A years ago and first tried to conjure a boy who would love it as much as he did. A boy who would love what he loved and not laugh, not tell him he was foolish. An impossible boy, a boy who would love him back. 

Alex hasn’t said anything in response, but his eyes are wet and Henry leans up to reverently kiss his eyes, his cheekbones, his lips. 

“Baby,” Alex whispers. It feels woefully inadequate as a response, but he’s gotten used to feeling that way when Henry says these things. He kisses Henry softly, a kiss that feels like it’s been pent up for so much longer than two weeks, then snuggles into his side, his head on Henry’s shoulder. 

“Bed,” Alex mutters, “we can’t fall asleep here.” 

“Mmhmm,” Henry agrees dreamily, but neither of them move. 


End file.
